


What I Never Told You

by Linky



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4074343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linky/pseuds/Linky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is part of a larger fanfiction, and is certainly NOT the end. I have great things in store for this pairing, so keep your eyes peeled xx</p></blockquote>





	What I Never Told You

Alistair could hear a distant ringing that was surrounded by a silence so perfect, it was almost tangible. His body ached all over – it actually felt a lot like that one time he had been out drinking with his fellow Templar recruits and somehow the night ended with him being sat on by a horse. But his mouth lacked the foul taste of alcohol gone rancid, and the throbbing of his head was due to trauma and not drink. Had he walked head first into Sten again? He sometimes wondered if the Qunari wasn’t made of stone. Ha. Sten the Stone. Stone Sten. Brilliant. He’d have to remember that one, Gilly would appreciate it, for all that she pretended to be exasperated by his childish humour.

           

Gilfraen. 

 

She had looked at him, in those precious seconds of stillness, and the smile on her lips was brave. It was reassuring. ‘ _We succeeded_!’ it said to him. But the look in her eyes was one of resignation. He had seen tears smudging the dried blood on her face. He had seen fear in the trembling hands that gripped the pommel of a weapon he did not recognise. For a moment Alistair thought she was saying something – her lips were moving. Funny, he never thought she was the religious type, did many elves believe in the Maker? _Was_ she praying to the Maker?

 _What did you say_? He thought he had asked, but the words were torn from him, along with breath and consciousness. Maker, he wasn’t dead was he? Light seeped through the slits of his eyelids, cold and weak. It was morning. No. He wasn’t dead. With some difficulty, he forced his eyes to open fully, wincing at the bright white of the sky. Smoke billowed in upwards streams, striping his vision, but he could see no flames; he could hear only the ringing.

It was some moments more before he could move his head from side to side, and once he achieved that, control over his body seemed to flood him with alarming alacrity, preceded by the hot, full-body pinch of healing magic. Sound flooded his ears. Fires roaring in the distance; fires crackling up close. The injured moaning. The silence of fallen comrades. Wynne was alright then. The thought gave him enough relief to roll to his side. And from there, well it was a simple matter to push onto his knees. That was where he paused. All around him was destruction. Theirs was the victory, but he had not thought it would feel so gruesome. Flagstones spattered with blood and gore. Limbs and heads strewn carelessly across carcasses with helmet faces.

A great, dark mass was central to the horrors. There was not much left of the black dragon’s head, just some chipped bone covered in tattered flesh – pierced by a greatsword owned by a long fallen soldier. And there it was. Her gauntleted hand seemed too small in comparison to all that surrounded her, it was testament to her willpower that she had managed to hold fast during the explosion, held fast still. But then, she had been at the eye of the storm, perhaps it had been calmer for her. 

With his body newly healed, Alistair found it easy to sprint to her. He wanted to spare a glance for Wynne. He wanted to take a moment to see if Morrigan was truly gone, as she vowed she would be. But instead, he found himself cradling the body of a petite, elven woman, whose hair was matted with blood and whose eyes stared at him through a haze.

“Not…” she wheezed, her words a breath, maybe just a figment, “not long now.”

“Don’t say that.” Alistair was not ashamed of the way his voice shook, “Wynne can…Wynne will…”

“Alistair.” How could she sound so calm? How could she smile at him when she knew all he would see was the blood staining her teeth, “Remove my gauntlet. The one on the left. Please, give it to Zevran.”

“You’re going to give it to him yourself, Gilly.” Alistair protested weakly, doing as she bid even so. Her gauntlet came free with the minute struggle that seems colossal in such time deprived moments. The hand inside was pale and smooth in comparison to the face it belonged to – he almost did not believe it was hers. Tucked into her sleeve, he saw the crumpled corner of a note. Gently, Alistair pried it free and placed it in her fingers, using his own to keep it there, knowing she lacked the strength.

“What’s this?’ He choked on his attempt at laughter, “A love letter? I hope it’s full of dirty things, you know how fond he is of that.” He waited for her response in the same way beggars hope for coin in an empty street. Her eyes looked at him; looked through him; looked beyond him. She was so still, but the wind stirred her hair deceptively so that she might have been sleeping. Fresh blood trickled from her nose. Alistair had cried many times in his life. He remembered doing it as a boy, angry and _hurt_ that nobody wanted him but the dogs in kennels he was forced to sleep in. As a young man, with his throat tight, in frustration because he did not want to be where he was. Slightly older, when his friend and mentor died and he mistakenly thought he was unwanted and alone once more.

He could not remember a time when the tears refused to be shed. He could feel them, sticking in his throat and burning his eyes, but all that escaped him was a quiet sigh that seemed to echo over the past year. Perhaps later he would have more to give, or perhaps a King could not be allowed to lose composure in the face of one loss – no matter how great.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled curiously, and he turned his head to catch sight of Zevran take a step towards him – towards her – and then stop as though he had met an immovable force. He was panting, clearly he had sprinted through the city to get to Gilfraen. Alistair felt guilty, almost, that her last words had been his. But the guilt lasted only briefly, she had been his first, he had known her longer.

It took Zevran minutes to force his legs to move. When they did, it felt odd to him as though he could not understand what reason they could have to function. He collapsed beside Alistair, who looked unforgivably unscathed.

“Give her to me.” He said hoarsely, taking Gilfraen gently in his arms when Alistair willingly passed her to him. It was painful to watch the way Zevran stroked her face, whispering ‘ _amora_ ’ like a chant, willing her eyes to lose their milky quality and see him once more. He was trembling, like a bottle of beer left too long in the sun. One explosion had been enough for Alistair.

“She wanted you to have this.” Alistair handed Zevran the note and wisely took his leave. Pushing thoughts and memories from his mind, he searched for Wynne, finding a small smile for her when he saw she had suffered no harm other than exhaustion.

A short time later – or perhaps it had been hours, Alistair wasn’t certain – the bubble silence surrounding the top of the tower was shattered. He would not have called it a shout or a scream. He wouldn’t even have called it a cry. He’d seen similar effects used by warriors before battle, fuelling all their anger and battle-lust into one tremendous sound, inspiring their comrades and terrifying their opposition.

It was sorrow so profound, drawing from dark corners previously protected by denial and false hope; from memories too intimate to be recalled, caused by loss too great to recover from. And suddenly there were tears falling from his eyes in unashamed rivulets. Beside him, Wynne sobbed, collapsing to her knees, and he would not be surprised if, somewhere out there, Morrigan’s feet stayed in their tracks and she too succumbed to grief. It was not a sound that was heard. It was felt, to the very bowels of the earth.

Eventually, Zevran grew silent – his voiced used up. When he looked, Alistair saw him clutching her body to his own, as though his warmth might seep into her. Her head lolled sightlessly, limply to one side. There was no amount of love that could return life to the dead, but it seemed just for a raw moment, perhaps it might. Then Zevran was still. Still as stone.

“Is there not something we can do for him?” Alistair questioned Wynne softly as she tried to regain composure, wiping her face with the hem of her dress before he assisted her to her feet.

“Child,” He’d never heard her sound quite so old before, “I can’t heal hearts broken by emotion. And even if I could, Gilfraen took all of his with her.”

“And there’s nothing…” He almost did not want to ask, “nothing you can do for her?”

“Her body is not broken.” Wynne leaned heavily on her staff and Alistair felt a pang of guilt for asking so much from her, “She has no wounds bar minor scratches and bruises. The blood you see on her is from wounds I healed mid-battle. There’s nothing I can do that I have not already. Not even blood magic could not bring her back now.” Which was fortunate as he might have considered it, if it could.

Alistair helped Wynne find a seat, obtaining from her an assurance that she would rest, before he found himself wandering towards the still unmoving Zevran. The nearer he came, the more certain he was that he could hear the Antivan elf speaking. He paused a little distance away, wanting to give him some final moments of privacy.

“You lied to me, _amora_.” He heard Zevran comment softly, his voice hoarse, “Why did I ever teach you to be so good at it? You promised. You said, ‘Zevran, we will meet again’ but here I am and you are nowhere to be found. And now you leave me a note. What use is it to me, unless I find you at the end of it? _Mi amora._ ”

“Zev.” Alistair cleared his throat. At the sound of his voice, Zevran jealously gripped Gilfraen, face buried in her hair.

“She does not smell of blood.” He commented at last, “So many times, after we have done battle with Darkspawn, she would return to camp with the stench of fresh blood in her hair and on her skin. But now there is nothing. No scent. No stench. The only proof that she was really here is this…cor-” it was too soon for the word ‘corpse’ to be used as a description for her. Corpse was a word meant for the unknown faces, not a woman who an hour ago was more alive the left-overs of their patchwork army.

Alistair had to no right to know, and he would not ask, what was in that letter she had written for her lover. But he wanted to. As though, by reading it, he would hear her voice once more. Which was something poor Zevran feared. He did not desire to hear her, to think of her, to even see her as she grew cold and frigid in his arms. Perhaps later he would cling to those memories, but for now, they were shards of poison blades in his heart.

“A moment, Alistair.” Zevran requested quietly. It was met with compliance as the now King of Ferelden turned his back and pretended not to hear what was said. Zevran closed Gilfraen’s eyes, ending their sightless stare at last.

“I love you. I never told you.” He kissed her, his heart aching when found her lips still soft. And he could have sworn, riding in the echoes of wind, he heard her whisper it back.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a larger fanfiction, and is certainly NOT the end. I have great things in store for this pairing, so keep your eyes peeled xx


End file.
